Beforehand, That Maid
by slugish
Summary: "There was a problem, Young Master. It is considered less than elegant to kill off a woman, is it not? I brought her in for further instructions." This is a story of how Maylene came to be the Phantomhive maid. Part 2 of 4 Beforehand short stories.


It was a dark, cool, sodding wet night when the sound of a cocked rifle sounded out through the air. A man spoke between loud drops of rain around them and the chews on his unlit cigarette. "Assassin spotted. Shoot the fucker down or save'm for later?"

Sebastian frowned. "And what do you suggest we do with someone so dishonest?"

And so, given the cue, the-once-Lieutenant Bardroy shot. He aimed as best as he could with his infected right arm- goddamn war and its goddamn problems, and even with this goddamn problem, Bard mused, his aim should be perfect; he didn't go through fucking training camp for nothing- and fired.

Someone screamed through the pounding rain. Bard scoffed under his breath and aimed again, almost chewing hard enough to bite the (goddamn) filter off his (goddamn) cigarette and-

_Goddammit_, Bard just wasn't having a good day. Thunder went off in the distance and a loud cracking noise echoed behind it.

"Oi, something's weird. And I think someone fell out'a the tree. I'll go check it o-"

"You are in no condition to do so."

And so, it was Sebastian who headed over to where the scream came from. Bard looked down at his wound as soon as he could, fidgeting with it and noting to himself that if Sebastian's frown just became a whole lot deeper, his day was going to get a whole lot worse. After a minute of complete silence, Bard broke down. "Oi, what's wrong over there?"

Sebastian picked up something off the ground and carried it over, ignoring Bard's question. "Go and redress your wound, and then after you are sure it is properly sanitized and your hands are clean, begin dinner. I will be in shortly to check up on you."

Bard stared. "O-oi! I asked you a questi-"

A glance over the shoulder as Sebastian passed. "I would not speak up to your superiors and saviors if I were you."

And so, in the end, Bard didn't.

Sebastian headed inside, bringing the new captive to the study. "Young Master, what shall we do with this?"

That young boy, not yet even five feet tall, didn't look to greet his butler. "The assassin, I presume? Why was he not finished?"

"There was a problem, Young Master. It is considered less than elegant to kill off a woman, is it not? I brought her in for further instructions."

Ciel turned from the window, eyeing the subject of interest with little more than acknowledgement. "Who is she?"

Sebastian pressed the girl to the ground, pushing her hands upward along her own spine to prevent any movement. Blood dripped down her cheek, mixed quickly with the rain, and became absorbed among similar stains in her shirt. "There was no way to identify her."

Ciel stared, still over his shoulder. "She was the one sent to finish me off?"

"So it seems."

Finally, he headed over to view the girl himself. She writhed and cringed from under Sebastian's grip, looking away from the boy. How dishonorable it must be to be caught failing one's mission. He kneeled down next to her. She grimaced; no one had told her there'd be someone shooting back. This was supposed to be an easy job.

He stared for a moment, then two, and then a few more. When Ciel finally spoke up, it didn't nearly have the same disinterested tone from earlier. "Sebastian, find her an outfit and a job to do. If she was one of the enemy's workers, she will make a valuable servant." He stood back up, heading back to the window and watching the heavy rain fall. He only glanced back one last time, and only to ask "And what is your name?"

The girl stayed silent, bowing her head down to the ground. Already dishonored or not, she didn't have to give in this low. The pressure loosened off of her, her hands let free. She instinctively pushed herself up off the ground, wiping a stray drop of blood and rain from her eye.

"Here, miss." Sebastian held out a light handkerchief, of some material never before seen. Is this what they speak of when there's talk of silk and satin, of beautiful cloths rare enough to only be purchased by those intricately rich? The girl accepted it, without thinking of the consequences of befriending the enemy. She stared up at him, stared at him curiously, and he offered her a hand. Delicately, kindly, with such a sweet tone, he asked again. "Your name, miss?"

For the first time in ages, she blushed. "M-Maylene."


End file.
